Bridge to Haven (50 page)

The cabdriver had recognized her, much to her dismay, as had the hotel clerk. But Abra had asked them not to tell anyone where she was. She paid cash for three nights in a bungalow, enough time to decide where to go and what to do next. She wandered through shops and picked up a wardrobe of casual clothes Franklin would hate. She picked out a one-piece black bathing suit and a green-and-turquoise sarong Dylan would have detested. She bought sandals and sunglasses, a beach towel, tanning lotion, and four candy bars. How long since she had eaten a Mars bar or Snickers? Franklin wouldn’t allow her to eat chocolate for fear her flawless skin would break out. She bought a suitcase and shoved all the merchandise inside before returning to the bungalow, which turned out to be a mini paradise. She’d dumped the suitcase and sprawled, exhausted, on the king-size bed.

Relieved to remember she was safe, she dozed again, troubled by dreams of Franklin crying. He accused her of betraying him. An empty bottle of Scotch lay on a red rug.

Abra heard voices and realized it was morning. Frightened, she
got up and peered between the curtains. It was only a waiter delivering breakfast to another bungalow. How long since she had eaten? Gathering her courage, she called room service and ordered a pot of coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes with extra syrup. The last time she’d had pancakes, Priscilla had fixed them.

A wave of homesickness swept over her. She thought of Peter in the living room watching the news while Priscilla fixed dinner in the kitchen. She wondered if Penny had ended up going to Mills College. She would have graduated by now if she did. Abra remembered sitting in Pastor Zeke’s office. She couldn’t remember anything he’d said, but she remembered how he’d looked. Heartsick, worried. About her, she realized now. Was Joshua still in Haven? Was he married, or still living with Pastor Zeke? One of the last times she’d seen him, they’d had a fight in the street outside the Swan Theater. She remembered how she used to sit in Mitzi’s kitchen, sipping Ovaltine and waving to Carla Martin, keeping an eye on her mother-in-law from next door.

Abra put her forearm over her eyes and gulped down tears.
I want to go home.
She pushed the pain down again. She didn’t have a home. Especially not in Haven.

She got up and opened her new suitcase, laying out her purchases on the bed. She stood back, hands on her hips, satisfied. Lena Scott wouldn’t be caught dead in jeans and a T-shirt. She wouldn’t wear simple cotton pajamas or underwear.

Someone tapped on the door. Lena would be aghast at being caught in the rumpled clothes she’d slept in. She wouldn’t be seen by anyone until she was wearing makeup and her hair was brushed and coiffed. Abra answered the door.

The waiter was friendly and courteous and said, “Miss Scott,” as though she could be “Miss Smith.”

Abra drank coffee and ate her fill of eggs, bacon, and pancakes. She felt queasy after the heavy meal. Franklin had carefully monitored her
diet, pushing vegetables and grains, chicken and fish, purified water and tea, no coffee. When her stomach settled, she put on her new bathing suit and tucked a hundred-dollar bill into the bodice. Surf and sand would make her feel better. Wrapped in the new sarong, she went out to walk on the beach. She shivered in the cold morning air. Rather than go back to the bungalow, she ran on wet sand to warm up, enjoying it far more than the usual five-mile run on a treadmill under the watchful eye of Franklin’s hired trainer.

Young men and women came out to enjoy themselves. Abra felt lonely watching them, half-hoping someone would recognize her and want to talk, half-afraid they might. She sat on a bench and watched teenage girls in skimpier suits than hers spread hot-pink and yellow beach towels before lathering their bodies with lotion. The air was scented with Coppertone. They all reminded her piercingly of Penny and Charlotte, Pamela and Michelle, and lounging on the banks of Riverfront Park.

Franklin haunted her.
“We have to take advantage of your day in the sun, Lena.”

He hadn’t meant sunlight, but press coverage. He’d always hoped for a headline. How ironic, considering she’d started her life as a headline story in the Haven
Chronicle
, after Reverend Ezekiel Freeman had found an abandoned baby under the bridge.

More and more people came to the beach. Most stretched out on towels, soaking up the sun. Abra loved the warmth on her shoulders and back, the salt breeze in her face.

She had come to the right place: Santa Monica, named for the devout mother of St. Augustine, who prayed for years for her wayward, feckless son until he finally repented and became a saint himself. Abra thought of her own life and what a mess she’d made of it.

Did her mother ever wonder what happened to her?

Did Pastor Zeke, or Joshua, or Peter and Priscilla?

Hungry, she broke another of Franklin’s cardinal rules and bought
a hot dog, french fries, and a Coke from a concession stand. She could almost hear him yelling. Just thinking about him made her angry. She intended to waste time judiciously and break every rule in his book. She bought an ice cream sandwich on the Santa Monica Pier and rode the carousel four times. It took that many rides before she snagged the brass ring, and then she was too sick to go on the free ride. She gave the ring to a little redheaded girl in pigtails. Had she ever looked that innocent?

Free and finally out from under Franklin’s thumb, she didn’t know what to do. She wanted to get farther away than Santa Monica. But where? She wished she could get a car and just start driving. She’d go all the way across the country to the Atlantic Ocean if she knew how to drive. Now that she thought about it, she didn’t even have any form of identification. The only legal document in the safe with a name on it was that marriage certificate, and it said Lena Scott, not Abra Matthews. Was the marriage even legal?

Lena Scott didn’t exist anymore. Neither did Abra Matthews, it seemed.

She wanted to talk to someone, but the only person who came to mind was her manicurist, Mary Ellen, and she’d have to call Murray and ask for her number. And if she called Murray, he might call Franklin. Her mind went round and round.

Call home.

What home?

Sunset splashed red, orange, and yellow across the western horizon. On the way back to the hotel, she bought a hamburger, fries, and a chocolate shake, and couldn’t stop thinking about Joshua. Her eyes burned and her throat closed up so much, she threw away most of the meal.

She spent her time wandering the beach, trying to decide what to do and where to go. She had thought it would feel good to be alone. To be Abra again, invisible. Instead, she felt vulnerable and scared
when people looked at her, a flicker of recognition lighting their eyes. Franklin said fans had ripped clothing off Elvis Presley’s back and tried to grab hunks of hair.
“Sometimes their devotion is dangerous. They want a piece of you. That’s why I have to protect you.”

Franklin hadn’t wanted a piece of her; he’d wanted everything. He’d wanted her mind, body, and soul to belong to him. He had been her biggest fan—and more dangerous than everyone else combined. He would share her on a movie screen, but in real life, she belonged to him and he wouldn’t share, not even with a baby.

Sleep came fitfully. She heard a soft tap and found a newspaper just outside her door. A partial headline caught her attention. Heart in her throat, she brought it inside and unfolded it on the coffee table.

AGENT FOUND DEAD, STAR MISSING

Franklin Moss, well-known star builder, was found dead in his apartment . . . apparent suicide . . . His mistress, rising star Lena Scott, is missing . . . The doorman of the apartment house said Miss Scott left the premises soon after Franklin Moss departed that morning. “She was carrying a suitcase, but dumped it on the sidewalk across the street and ran when I called out to her.”

Franklin Moss has been estranged from his wife since his affair with Pamela Hudson, now married to director Terrence Irving. Close friends say Moss was a perfectionist, great at his job, but often suffered deep depression. Mrs. Moss filed for divorce when the story of his affair with Pamela Hudson reached the press, and then withdrew the petition in hope of reconciliation.

Neighbors of Moss report overhearing loud arguments between Moss and Lena Scott, who have been living together for three years. The doorman hadn’t seen her for several weeks. “Mr. Moss said she wasn’t feeling well.”

Dropping the newspaper, Abra fled into the bathroom and threw up.

“Be careful he doesn’t pull you over with him,”
Pamela Hudson had said.

Abra had escaped, but had she pushed him over the edge?
I hate you!
she’d written. She remembered the gun she’d left on the desk. Abra heard an awful sound, like an animal dying, and realized it was coming from her.

Joshua stepped around the counter and picked up the freshly brewed pot of coffee, delivering five mugs to the new customers taking stools.

“Well, ain’t you a handy man to have around!” Clarice grinned as she stacked plates of meat loaf and mashed potatoes up her arm.

“Figured you could use a little help.”

“I’m thankful for the packed house, but I need more hands. Only happens when a movie company comes to film something at the Rocks.” She whisked past him and delivered the meals. Rudy hit the bell again and she called out, “All right, all right, I’m coming; I’m coming!” Shaking her head, she bumped past Joshua. “I’d hire you if I didn’t know you already had a better-paying job. But I sure could use someone around here. Not enough local girls interested.” The sound of men’s voices filled the place. By seven, the place was emptying fast. Four a.m. start-up time came mighty early.

Joshua lingered, in no hurry to go back to his hot, dusty motel room. Rudy came out of the kitchen and sank onto a stool at the counter a couple down from Joshua. Clarice poured him a tall glass of water. He chugged it. “I feel like a horse rode hard and put away
wet.” He took a cloth from his apron pocket and wiped his perspiring face.

“Well, enjoy it while it lasts, you old coot, ’cause six weeks and the crew will hightail it out of town, and we’ll be right back wondering why we ever thought we could make money on this place.”

“I’m getting too old for this.”

“I’m no spring chicken myself. I should share my tips with this gentleman. He poured coffee and bused tables.”

“My pleasure, Clarice.” Joshua smiled at Rudy. “You serve a good, hearty meal.”

“He learned to cook in the Army,” Clarice volunteered. “World War II.”

Rudy snorted. “You won’t get anything fancy, but I can fill you up.”

“Only thing he refuses to cook is Spam, and I love the stuff.”

“You didn’t have to live on it for four years.”

Joshua laughed and said he’d felt the same way after Korea. They shared experiences while Clarice cleaned the counter and took another plastic bin of dirty dishes into the kitchen. Rudy looked around. “Where’s the newspaper?”

“Hold your horses!” She pulled it out from under the counter. Rudy separated the sections, found the sports, and left the front page on the counter.

A headline caught Joshua’s eye.
Agent Found Dead, Star Missing.
His heart took a fillip. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Help yourself.” Rudy rattled the paper as he turned it inside out. “You can have the sports page as soon as I finish it.”

Joshua read the cover story and dug for his wallet. “Can I have change for the telephone?” He pulled a few dollars out.

Clarice handed him nickels, dimes, and quarters. “Something wrong, Joshua?”

“Just need to call home.” He went outside to the phone booth and closed himself inside. The heat was stifling as he dialed. The
phone rang once, twice, three times before Dad answered. He gave Dad the news.

“You think she might come back to Haven?”

“Maybe. Keep an eye out for her. I don’t know, Dad.” Joshua sighed. “It’ll be now or never.”

“What are you going to do?”

He’d already given his word. “Stay here and finish the job.”